


Blood and Ice

by NachtofWalpurgis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, PoD Great Council of 233A.C., Robert's Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 14:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachtofWalpurgis/pseuds/NachtofWalpurgis
Summary: The Starks fight not for honor nor out of duty. They fight for their blood, their pack, and woe betide those who stand in their way.A Robert's Rebellion AU originally posted on AH.com.





	1. Eddard I

He could just barely make out the head of the procession. They were riding at a breakneck pace ahead of the main host, their horses kicking up a maelstrom of topsoil as they went, layering their leathers, mail, and plate with a light brown dust. He could feel his mount tiring beneath him and he knew they would have to stop soon or risk being useless in the battles ahead. Eddard just hoped they would make it in time to assist their allies in the Riverlands but given the reception they received at The Twins, that outcome was looking less and less likely.  
  
  
  
Eddard was currently riding next to Howland Reed. Despite the crannogman’s protests that he was not any good on a horse, he seemed to be doing rather well for himself. They had spent most of their time in companionable silence since the first few days of the march, having exhausted all comfortable conversation topics. One can only remark upon the fair weather so many times after all and Eddard had heard enough about Greywater Watch for his liking. Any other topic often led them to places that they didn’t want to tread.  
  
  
  
_Lyanna…_  
  
  
  
He prayed to the Gods that she was unharmed. He didn’t know what he would do otherwise.  
  
  
  
“Ned!”  
  
  
  
He caught sight of Brandon coming back from the head of the van at a relaxed pace, accompanied by an eager Ethan Glover bearing a Stark banner. His brother looked as carefree as ever with a broad grin on his face and Ice slung across his back. He was no doubt looking forward to testing the family steel in true combat. Their father had bestowed it upon him before they departed as a matter of practicality, given that he would be commanding in the rear. It aggrieved Father to no end to admit that he wasn’t as hale as he used to be, but the past few years had not been kind to him and winter was coming.  
  
  
  
“Can you feel it?,” Brandon asked as he and Ethan turned their horses around to ride side by side with Eddard.  
  
  
  
He shrugged, deciding not to acknowledge his brother’s vague question, given that he was likely to follow it with something lewd regardless. Howland, however, had no such reservations. “Feel what, my Lord?”  
  
  
  
Brandon looked surprised at Howland’s presence, but his countenance quickly changed to adopt a manic grin. “The sound of four and twenty thousand hooves about to firmly plant themselves in some southron arse, that’s what.”  
  
  
  
Both Howland and Ethan gave a weak chuckle as Brandon laughed far too hard at his own joke. Eddard wasn’t amused.  
  
  
  
“two and thirty,” He muttered. There was a force of eight thousand horse in their company, so either Brandon was not paying any mind to Father in the war council or he had forgotten his numbers. Eddard would wager on the latter.  
  
  
  
“What was that?” Brandon looked at him oddly.  
  
  
  
“Nothing, Brother. When will we reach the Crossroads?” Eddard could guess, but that’s all it would be. A guess… His brother knew these lands best.  
  
  
  
Brandon ran a hand through his hair as his face screwed up in concentration. “Perhaps late the next morn if we stop soon, past the hour of the wolf tonight if we don’t, Then we’ll push on to Darry.”  
  
  
  
“Is it wise to advance so far beyond the main host?” If their supply was cut off from the north they would have to forage in nearby villages and Eddard sorely wanted to avoid that.  
  
  
  
His brother narrowed his eyes. “There’s not even any minor houses along this stretch of the Kingsroad. Assuming the Charltons did not impede their progress,…” Brandon huffed at the prospects of that happening. They were apparently just as spineless as their Frey overlords and did not even send out an envoy as they passed through their lands. “...any of our foes would have to ford the Green Fork to cut us off, leaving them vulnerable.”  
  
  
  
Eddard nodded solemnly in understanding. That was not strictly true. They were still open to attack from the east, but unless the mountain clans of the Vale had developed an interest in the politics of the realm, such things were unlikely until they reached the Crossroads.  
  
  
  
Brandon laughed. “By the Gods...Smile, Ned! We’re headed to battle and glory and here you are looking as if you’re already a statue in the crypts.”  
  
  
  
“It is not wise to jest about such things.” Not that he had any true superstitions, He just found his brother’s humor severely lacking.  
  
  
  
He only laughed harder. “You sound like Old Nan.” He turned to face his squire. “Come, Ethan. We can hardly lead the procession from the center.” As they trotted off, Eddard shared a look with his friend.  
  
  
  
He was now confident that he knew the reason Father sent him along with the forward column. Eddard was neither a great warrior like Brandon, nor did he have any real experience leading cavalry.  
  
  
  
_Or men at all for that matter…_  
  
  
  
It was just as well that Brandon was in charge but if he got too foolhardy, Eddard would be there to counsel patience and hopefully drag his brother out of danger if need be.  
  
  
  
The day dragged on relentlessly as they pushed their steeds. They finally stopped to set up camp as the dusk light was waning, finding themselves outside of a small hamlet that Brandon said was not more than five miles north of The Crossroads.  
  
  
  
Eddard stepped into their impromptu command tent, finding half of their number already there. Around the circular table Brandon looked to be joking around with Lord William Dustin and judging by the wistful smile on the young Lord Dustin’s face, they were talking about Barbrey, the new Lady of Barrowton.  
  
  
  
Lord Wyman Manderly was already starting to help himself to the meager refreshments available as he acknowledged Eddard’s arrival with a nod and asked, “Has Martyn returned yet, Ser Eddard?”  
  
  
  
Eddard shook his head as he took his seat at the table next to Brandon. “Not to my knowledge, Lord Manderly.” It did not bode well that the most forward group of outriders had yet to return, but there were still a few hours left before their absence would raise serious concern.  
  
  
  
His ruminations were interrupted by Lord Ryswell and his brother, Ser Mark striding into the tent. “Any news?” Brandon asked.  
  
  
  
“Aye, but there’s not much to report, my Lord.” Rodrik Ryswell was a grizzled man on the cusp of his fortieth name day with a few grey hairs taking hold in his brown beard. Ser Mark looked like a younger version of his brother with the same brown hair and fewer wrinkles around his eyes.  
  
  
  
He has not had the opportunity to get to know the Ryswells at all really, but Lord Rodrik seemed to be the more serious of the two with Ser Mark being more gregarious if a bit soft-spoken. Eddard supposed it only made sense that the eldest was more grim, given his responsibilities.  
  
  
  
“Well, report it anyway. It’s not like we have anything better to be talking about.” Brandon sighed. His brother was clearly growing bored, constantly riding without seeing any action or indulging in his favorite vices.  
  
  
  
The Ryswells settled down in their seats before Lord Rodrik obliged. “Aye, my Lord. Most of the scouts have returned from their rangings and have found no opposition in sight for the moment. We’re still waiting on the van, but that’s to be expected. If they sighted something, they’re counting numbers and if they didn’t they’re likely being doubly thorough.” He took a long draw from his tankard before wiping his mouth and continuing. “Ser Martyn’s no fool and we don’t want to be going into the Crossroads blind.”  
  
  
  
Brandon nodded firmly looking every inch a lord and Eddard chose the time to interject before his brother’s serious mood passed. “The last rider from the main host says that they’re two days march behind us. We wouldn’t want to bite off more than we can chew, otherwise, the foot will be unable to come to our aid in time.”  
  
  
  
Lords Manderly and Dustin nodded while Lord Ryswell remained inscrutable at Eddard’s words.  
  
  
  
“Yes, yes, Ned...” Brandon leaned back in his chair while propping his legs up on the table. Lord Ryswell had a noticeable eyebrow tic at that, to Eddard’s faint amusement. “...but if an opportunity presents itself, we take it by the horns. You understand?”  
  
  
  
Eddard rolled his eyes at the pun. “Of course. Such were our orders.”  
  
  
  
With that response, the miniature war council devolved into stunted conversations about supply lines and overall battle plans that were ultimately useless without the bigger picture. Once Lord Dustin brought up how the quality of ale degraded the further south you went, Eddard knew it was time to conclude the meeting.  
  
  
  
As he was made to say as much, the tent flap opened once more to reveal Ser Martyn Cassel, whose appearance inspired a palpable sense of relief.  
  
  
  
“My Lord, The Crossroads is clear for us to advance.”  
  
  
  
Brandon’s face broke out into a grin. “Excellent, Martyn. Any word of movement in the area?”  
  
  
  
Martyn smiled. “Aye. The smallfolk all say that troops from the east bearing falcon banners took the south road towards Darry about a moon ago.”  
  
  
  
Most of them clearly reveled in the news, but Eddard’s face remained carefully blank. A lot could happen in a moon’s time. It seemed as if Lord Ryswell shared his sentiment as they shared a look of concern over the table.  
  
  
  
“You didn’t encounter any evidence of other outriders?” Lord Ryswell was clearly disbelieving at this possibly being the case.  
  
  
  
Martyn gave a small shrug as he shook his head. “No, my Lord. I’m as shocked as you are. No soldiers have been seen at The Crossroads for a fortnight.”  
  
  
  
Brandon seemed to actually be thinking things through for once. “It’s been the same way for the entire march. We’ve encountered no scouts and no envoys beyond the Freys...” He trailed off as he realized the oddity.  
  
  
  
Lord Manderly got red in the face and slammed his sizable fist on the table. “They think us craven!” He calmed down a bit after a glare from Lord Dustin drew his attention to the ale spilt as a result of his brief outburst, but he nevertheless continued in a more measured fashion. “We took so long to gather the full strength of The North...perhaps they thought that we weren’t coming at all.”  
  
  
  
An audible snort came from the other side of the table. “Once the banners were called, all of Westeros knew we would be marching before long. It would be impossible to gather a force of our size in secret.”  
  
  
  
Well...that theory was out. The merchants in White Harbor alone would have spread word to the Vale within a week. It was impossible to know how far the news of marching Northmen could have spread by now.  
  
  
  
Eddard had a thought. “Perhaps both sides are certain that we are coming to aid them and see no reason to keep an eye on us when they have other foes to worry about.”  
  
  
  
The others exchanged glances around the table before Brandon broke out into a chuckle which quickly morphed into a full-blown laugh. The remaining members of the council all found some degree of amusement at the idea, with even Lord Ryswell allowing himself a small smirk.  
  
  
  
“I admit that the notion has some merit, but the lack of opposition could also belie the presence of a trap.”  
  
  
  
Lord Dustin nodded. “I concur with Lord Rodrik. We must be cautious in our advance from now on.”  
  
  
  
They no longer had the luxury of two natural obstacles protecting their flanks, so it would be wise to tread carefully. Raising a third voice in agreement would contribute little, so Eddard kept silent.  
  
  
  
Brandon drained the rest of his tankard before rising. “Very well...We’ll continue at the same pace to The Crossroads then proceed at three-quarters speed to Darry. If all goes well, we should reach our objective by nightfall.”  
  
  
  
The council concluded with tired words of assent as Eddard and the others departed to their personal tents for the night. He fell asleep on his cot to dreams of battle and fire.  
  
  
  
The next morning saw them pass through the large village without issue and from there they took more care to screen their advance with double the amount of scout details. When Ser Martyn reported sighting the Arryn camp around Darry near dusk, Brandon was ecstatic.  
  
  
  
“They’re still holding out, Ned. There’s a battle to be had after all!”  
  
  
  
Eddard could not deny that he felt some excitement, but it was tempered by a heavy sense of dread as well. Whenever there was a battle, people died and while it seemed like an obvious enough realization, it hit a man harder when he’s on the eve of his first one. It could be Brandon, Howland, Martyn...anyone, even him now that he thought about it further. Oddly enough, the prospect of dying didn’t bother him overmuch. Perhaps it would when he came uncomfortably close to it.  
  
  
  
Eddard shook the thoughts out of his mind as the call came to mount. The fields around Darry left nothing to cover their advance except darkness and surprise was of the essence.  
  
  
  
He nodded to Martyn and Howland as he took his place at the center of the left flank. Their current position was behind one of the many rolling hills of the region that blocked the vision from the camp. The one disadvantage of the position was that it blocked their view of the center column as well. They would have to wait for the signal after the vanguard made contact.  
  
  
  
As night fell, the quiet became almost unbearable as the faint sounds of whispering became audible among the column. Eddard noticed that he was shifting back and forth in his saddle and had to make a conscious effort to stop.  
  
  
  
An even deeper silence fell over the battle group as they heard the sounds of yelling and clashing steel over the hill. Eddard held up his arm to settle a few of his more restless companions. They had to wait for the signal.  
  
  
  
Agonizing minutes that felt like years passed as Eddard grew more and more concerned. Just as he was beginning to question the whereabouts of the gods-be-damned horn blower, the deep chilling sound of a northern horn pierced the night air.  
  
  
  
He raised his sword. “Forward! For Winterfell!” Eddard felt some courage enter him as he ordered his host forward. The sound of thundering hooves dominated his senses as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. As they crested the hill, he saw the battle laid out before him. It was clearly going in their favor, but there were more men than they expected and not nearly as many of them had retired for the night as they thought. Victory seemed imminent, however, as the two flanks would trap the besieging host against Castle Darry and they could hopefully rely on assistance from the defenders once they realized what was going on.  
  
  
  
As he approached the fray, he cut down a few of the fleeing levy, before focusing in on a knight with a bundle of arrows on his shield. The Hunter knight noticed him as well. “For Robert!,” the man shouted.  
  
  
Eddard gave a cry of his own as he spurred his horse on. “For King Aerys!”


	2. Rickard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Starks return home from an aborted wedding at Riverrun, decisions have to be made.

The stairs to the solar seemed to grow in number every year. He was simply glad that his bones were not creaking like the steps beneath his feet. Winter would come to Sunspear before he admitted it, but he almost looked forward to the day when he would leave this world. All of the careful planning he had done to ensure the future of House Stark was being torn apart...by his own daughter, no less…  
  
  
  
He couldn’t say that he was completely blindsided by Lyanna’s actions. She never made it a secret how much she despised young Robert; Rickard just thought she would express it in some other fashion. He had prepared himself for multiple possibilities and he took her threats to flee to Essos or join the wildlings as seriously as he could for a girl of fifteen namedays. If she was truly determined, he wouldn’t put it past her to follow through on them but not once did he consider that she would run off with a man, let alone the crown prince. He had always possessed a high opinion of Rhaegar but he was reconsidering that assessment now that he has proven stupid enough to commit this folly.  
  
  
  
Rickard may be old but he wasn’t blind. He knew something was amiss when Lyanna seemed  _happy_  to attend Brandon’s wedding. When his heir reminded her that Robert would be there when they got to Riverrun, she only looked surprised for a moment before laughing as if he had told a great joke, completely befuddling everyone in the party except young Benjen, who only looked anxious.  
  
  
  
He sighed as he opened the door to his solar. He couldn’t help but glare slightly at his youngest son as Rickard sat down behind his desk. He was grateful that his son came clean about his role in Lyanna’s escape, but it didn’t change the fact that he shouldn’t have helped her in the first place. He schooled his expression as he met the gaze of his eldest. He was pleased to find that Brandon’s current attitude was appropriately solemn for the occasion. Rickard understood that his son was pleased about his marriage being ‘delayed’ but there was a war brewing and one way or the other, House Stark would not stand by the wayside.  
  
  
  
Eddard looked tense sitting between his brothers, but he seemed to be taking recent events in stride for the most part. He might just be bottling up his anger since he wasn’t there to stop his sister but he had confidence that Eddard would keep his composure. Rickard thanked the gods that he didn’t have the wolfsblood as well, as their retinue had a hard enough time containing Brandon when he found the winter rose on Lyanna’s bed. They didn’t need a repeat of that when they returned to Winterfell. Rickard was concerned about him, though. He seemed to be taking it  _too_  well.  
  
  
  
The letters that arrived in Winterfell before their return painted a clearer picture of what happened in King’s Landing during their tense stay in Riverrun. Maester Walys had kept them a secret from Eddard as they were specifically addressed to Rickard. His son was not pleased and Rickard decided to bar the Maester from the meeting to avoid confrontation. He had read the letters and thought hard over the ramifications of them for a day before calling his sons to a discussion in the solar.  
  
  
  
They had heard all manner of rumors in Lord Tully’s hospitality and the only things that they agreed on was that Steffon was dead and Aerys was responsible. Lord Arryn had to have his men restrain his ward and all but drag him back to the Eyrie when the first whispers reached the Riverlands. At the time, Rickard was glad someone had the sense to stop the lad before he rushed down to charge the Red Keep, warhammer in hand, and throw his life away. Now though…  
  
  
  
The alternative would have been so much simpler.  
  
  
  
“What did the letters say? What’s happening, Father?”  
  
  
  
Rickard was broken out of his thoughts by Brandon who was starting to shift nervously in his seat as he would when he was a boy. The sight reminded him of happier times and nearly brought a smile to his face before he ruthlessly suppressed his ill-timed sentimentality.  
  
  
  
“Lord Baratheon was executed on the orders of King Aerys after being found guilty of treason against the crown. The King’s letter also claimed that Steffon personally tried to murder him in violation of guest right.”  
  
  
  
Rickard left out some details, but he did not lie. Despite the fact that he was displeased with Maester Walys for ignoring Eddard’s authority as acting Lord of Winterfell, he was somewhat grateful that no one had read the missives when they arrived and their contents were left sealed. It would make things much easier.  
  
  
  
Brandon’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound like Lord Steffon.”  
  
  
  
Rickard nodded. “I know, but he still has the fury in him when he’s provoked. Both the King’s and Lord Arryn’s letters agree that he rode into King’s Landing to demand the release of Lyanna. Steffon obviously thought Rhaegar abducted her on the King’s orders to deprive his heir of a wife.”  
  
  
  
“Why would King Aerys do that?,” Eddard asked. “He’d have nothing to gain and would greatly anger two Lord Paramounts in the process. His sanity might be in question, but he’s no simpleton.”  
  
  
  
Rickard barely held back the urge to chastise his son for speaking with such disrespect, although Eddard likely thought himself frank in his assessment. He supposed his old friend deserved it though, given what chaos he spawned, but old habits die hard. It didn’t help that they were all on edge. Gods, he missed Lyarra...  
  
  
  
He rubbed circles into his temples as he placed his elbows on the desk. “He would not and did not,” Rickard stated firmly. “The accusation is not completely baseless, however. The two of them have been at odds ever since Steffon returned from his expedition to Essos four years ago. I was there when he told the King of his failure. Aerys wanted a wife of pure Valyrian blood for Rhaegar and when Steffon came back empty-handed, His Grace accused Lord Baratheon of conspiring with Tywin Lannister to force his heir to marry a ‘servant’s daughter’.”  
  
  
  
At his sons’ confused glances, Rickard clarified. “Tywin’s daughter, Cersei”  
  
  
  
Brandon let out a loud snort followed by an even louder laugh. His brothers followed with chuckles of their own.  
  
  
  
Rickard allowed himself a small smirk. “Check your amusement, Brandon. You are likely to marry her yourself if the betrothal with Lady Catelyn fails.”  
  
  
  
His son’s laughing instantly turned into hacking coughs as Ned patted him on the back, not bothering to hide his brief glee at his brother’s discomfort.  
  
  
  
As Brandon recovered from his coughing fit and reached for the water pitcher, Rickard continued his explanation. “Steffon accused the King of excessive paranoia and, needless to say, Aerys didn’t take that very well. Insults were exchanged and if we all didn’t share blood, some would have been spilt that day. Once Aerys started making unsavory claims about Steffon’s wife, he gave a rather vulgar, verbal resignation from his post as Master of Ships. His Grace got the last word, however. He told Steffon that if he ever dared to show his face in his presence again that he would ‘wake the dragon’.”  
  
  
  
_And wake the dragon, he did..._  
  
  
  
His sons looked slightly disturbed at that. Any time a Targaryen thought himself a dragon, it never ended well for anyone.  
  
  
  
“What will Robert do now?” Brandon had met the young Baratheon on multiple occasions and while they often clashed because of their similar personalities, Rickard picked up no true animosity between them.  
  
  
  
“He’s already declared himself King...” Rickard was interrupted by the high, surprised voice of Benjen.  
  
  
  
“What?...I mean...why?” He looked mortified that he had spoken up at all, let alone in the manner that he did. Brandon and Eddard looked just as shocked as their brother with their mouths hanging half agape.  
  
  
  
Rickard sighed. “Robert Baratheon has sent his declaration throughout the seven kingdoms. He claims that the actions of King Aerys have stained his rule in the eyes of gods and men and lays claim to the Iron Throne through his great-grandfather Aegon the Unlikely.”  
  
  
  
“What of Rhaegar?...baby Aegon?...Viserys?” Brandon asked. He saw Eddard twitch at the mention of Rhaegar. While Brandon’s anger burned hot and fast before dissipating just as quickly, his brother’s lingered and seethed. It was always easier to forgive someone you considered a friend and Brandon spent much of his fostering years around the prince developing a rapport with him. Rickard got the impression that the prince considered Brandon to be somewhat annoying but they seemed fond of each other just the same. Eddard had only met Rhaegar a few times but shared mutual friends with him. Rickard hoped that would be enough to stop the two from coming to blows if they crossed paths…  
  
  
  
He shook his head. “He claims that the entire line has been tainted in the eyes of the gods by being spawned by a kinslayer and tyrant and that Rhaegar proved his treacherous blood by kidnapping his betrothed.”  
  
  
  
Eddard spoke up, his grey eyes narrowing. “He was at Riverrun. Both Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar shamed our family by running off together, but there was no kidnapping.”  
  
  
  
Brandon huffed. “Robert won’t believe something if he doesn’t want to.”  
  
  
  
That was oddly profound of Brandon. He knew that Steffon was always on the boy’s back to stop whoring for fear of ruining the betrothal, but his son paid him little heed. Rickard very nearly  _did_  break it off when he heard about Robert’s bastard girl in the Vale. The love he held for his cousin, Steffon, was the only thing that held the betrothal together. Well...that and the fact that there were no other realistic options among the great houses...  
  
  
  
Rickard shook off his musings to respond. “Whether he believes Lyanna was kidnapped or not, it is still a lie presented to the entire realm as truth. We know this for certain, thus putting his other claims about the injustice of his father’s death in doubt.”  
  
  
  
His sons seemed to be accepting of his rationalization with Eddard only hesitating slightly before nodding and asking “Who would stand with him?”  
  
  
  
“He should have a hard time gathering further support, but most of the Vale and the entirety of the Stormlands already support him. With those numbers, this has the potential to be the largest conflict since the First Blackfyre Rebellion.”  
  
  
  
Brandon shrugged “He’ll still be crushed swiftly then. Two against five are hardly favorable odds.”  
  
  
  
“I wouldn’t count on that, son. The Iron Throne can only truly count on Dorne and...perhaps the Reach in addition to the Crownlands, of course. Hoster Tully is a good friend of Lord Arryn and an opportunist to boot. He can’t be counted on to remain loyal...”  
  
  
  
Rickard recalled that Hoster and Lord Arryn excused themselves for a private conversation during their last day in Riverrun. He was not insulted that they didn’t see fit to include him, far from it. He had no desire to be an accessory to treason.  
  
  
  
“...The Iron Islands won’t intervene on the account of any loyalty to greenlanders and will likely pick a side when the war is all but over…”  
  
  
  
“Cravens,” Brandon muttered, earning an annoyed glance from Rickard for his interruption.  
  
  
  
“...and...It pains me to say, but Tywin won’t rouse himself on behalf of Aerys unless he’s left with no choice.”  
  
  
  
“He can’t oppose him either. Jamie is in the Kingsguard, a hostage in all but name,” Eddard interjected.  
  
  
  
Rickard nodded. “Aye. Lord Tywin will have to remain neutral for now, leaving the two sides just about equal before we involve ourselves.”  
  
  
  
He saw Brandon perk up at those words. “We’re calling the banners, then?”  
  
  
  
“Aye. We’re bound by oath and blood. The Starks of old never faltered in their duty and neither shall we. This usurper must be stopped or the realm shall surely descend into chaos.” Rickard stood up from his desk to clasp his eldest on the shoulder.  
  
  
  
Rickard met Brandon’s indigo eyes with his own. “Find Ser Martyn and tell him to prepare the men-at-arms and scour Winter Town and the nearby villages for men. I mean to bring the full might of the North down upon our enemies.”  
  
  
  
A broad smile crossed his son’s face. “Yes, Father.”  
  
  
  
His son departed with a considerable spring in his step and Rickard didn’t know whether to be proud or saddened by Brandon’s excitement for war. He worried for his eldest sometimes. He looked like a copy of Rickard himself when he was that age: Tall and imposing with dark brown hair and deep purple eyes. He had the strength of an aurochs...but half as much sense. He was glad that Brandon would have brothers by his side when the time came, to assist in the more cerebral aspects of ruling.  
  
  
  
As Brandon left the room, he turned to Benjen. “You will be the Stark in Winterfell when we depart. Can I trust you with such responsibility?”  
  
  
  
Whether or not he trusted his son was irrelevant, as there were no other Starks left to perform the duty of ruling Winterfell in their absence, but he was not yet done reminding Benjen of his mistake.  
  
  
  
“Of course, Father. I won’t disappoint you again.” Seeing such a serious expression on his youthful face reminded Rickard of just how fast his youngest was growing. Despite the fact that he was still quite cross with him, he was proud of the man he was becoming. He didn’t have the hefty build of his brothers, taking after his grandmother, but he was quick on his feet and even more so with his mind.  
  
  
  
He ruffled Benjen’s silver hair. “I know you won’t. Finish your lessons with Maester Walys, then go over the stores and accounts. Seeing the North through the rest of winter will require you to be familiar with the resources at your disposal.”  
  
  
  
Benjen gave quick words of assent and made to follow Rickard’s directives, leaving him alone with Eddard. He admitted to himself that while Brandon was his favorite child, he and Eddard were the most alike in personality even though he took after his mother in looks. Most times, they understood each other quite well, but Eddard saw through him too often for his liking and it could make dealing with him rather tiresome.  
  
  
  
“The outcome of our ‘discussion’ was fixed from the start.” Eddard may have grown sharper during his fostering, but at times he could be as blunt as a spoon.  
  
  
  
Rickard waited to answer until he was sitting behind his desk again. “Yes, yes it was.”  
  
  
  
“I won’t forget Lyanna.”  
  
  
  
He took a vellum of parchment and a quill and began to write. “I wouldn’t expect you to. The North remembers.”  
  
  
  
_To Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of The Andals, The Rhoynar..._  
  
  
  
He could feel the tension in the room grow with each passing second as the faint scratching of his quill filled the silence. The lengthy pause was ended by Eddard’s gruff whisper. “Will it?”  
  
  
  
Rickard slammed his hand down on the desk. “So you would have us stand by as cousin kills cousin?”  
  
  
  
“One cousin already has.” Eddard stood up. “The King is mad. You know it. I know it. Brandon knows it. Hells...The entire realm knows it.”  
  
  
  
Rickard got up and grabbed him by the collar, speaking in a harsh whisper. “Yes, Aerys is mad and he likely roasted Steffon alive for little more than spite and personal amusement.” He internally shuddered. The thought was even more sickening to him now that he said his suspicions out loud. “If Robert was merely calling for Aerys’ head, I’d gut him myself for what he did, but no...Robert wants the throne...If he wins, every living Targaryen is a threat to his reign...Viserys...Rhaenys...Aegon. They all have to die for his reign to be secure. Do you understand that? Do you truly want Rhaegar dead so much that you would sacrifice the others? Because even Aerys’ death isn’t worth their lives.” He let go of Eddard and his son staggered slightly before slumping back into his chair.  
  
  
  
Eddard spoke in a soft voice. “No...no...I certainly don’t think  _Lyanna_  wants him dead...I don’t want that either...I just...” He shook his head and let out a long breath. “...just, should we cross paths, Rhaegar has a lot to answer for.”  
  
  
  
Rickard calmed himself as he nodded and eased back into his seat. “Aye, that he does...” They spent a few minutes in contemplative silence. “...Go find Brandon. He likely needs your help.”  
  
  
  
Had it have been Brandon or Benjen, he would have been more subtle with his dismissal, but he knew that Eddard preferred that he be direct with him. He continued to write as he heard his son get up and step out of the room.  
  
  
  
_...and The First Men, Lord of The Seven Kingdoms and Protector of The Realm…_  
  
  
  
“Father.” Rickard looked up to see Eddard standing in the doorway. “We only ever had one choice, but we still made the right one.” His son gave a firm nod before striding down the hallway.  
  
  
  
Finally alone in his solar, Rickard leaned back in his chair and let out a long, tired sigh. Every argument with Eddard took a toll on him, but he was glad that his son had let out his anger and saw things his way for now. Steeling himself, he finished his formal letter to Aerys with florid and extravagant declarations of fealty that would be sure to flatter him...or at least assuage his anger somewhat…  
  
  
  
He pondered his next move for hours into the night. If the stakes weren’t so high, he would never consider it but when the pack was threatened, survival came before honor. They would need every advantage they could get in the dark days to come. Ice would have felt lighter than his quill as he wrote out his next letter.  
  
  
  
_To Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of The Andals, The Rhoynar and The First Men, Lord of The Seven Kingdoms and Protector of The Realm..._


	3. Eddard II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Darry commences and the Stark Brothers fight to relieve their allies from the Arryn siege.

The center of the camp was starting to glow in the distance as a veritable sea of tents were set aflame. Staring down the opposing rider’s spiked lance, he found himself seriously questioning his own mental faculties for charging directly at him with only his longsword and round shield but he couldn’t back off now. As the distance between them closed, Eddard steeled his resolve and hoped for the best.  
  
  
  
He felt his metal shield give way as he suffered the impact of the knight’s lance, sending a shooting pain up his arm as it shattered, nearly knocking him off his horse. The lance left it’s spike firmly embedded in his shield. Cursing under his breath and regaining his balance, Eddard struck out at his opponent’s neck and dented the knight’s gorget as he passed, eliciting a choked gasp from the man.  
  
  
  
Keeping his eyes on the Hunter knight, he watched as he was unhorsed by a burly Dustin horseman with an axe. He lost sight of him amid the charging Northern cavalry, but he could hear armor being battered and the knight’s guttural screams as he was trampled underfoot.  
  
  
  
“Strongsong!”  
  
  
  
Eddard barely had time to face the direction his horse was taking him before he was forced to duck a mace swinging towards his head. Caught off guard, he caught a flash of a purple surcoat in his vision before his attacker was swallowed up and hopefully dispatched by the surging flank.  
  
  
  
 _Gods be good...That was too close..._  
  
  
  
Eddard took a deep, centering breath as he prepared himself to cut down a few of the men-at-arms within his sight. They missed him with their short spears and fell one after the other to his sword.  
  
  
  
Eddard paused briefly to take in the battlefield. He was now firmly in the fray amid burning tents and screaming men. He saw his brother in the distance cutting through multiple men in quick succession, like a scythe through wheat, before engaging a large man in mismatched armor. Ice was almost glowing red with blood in the light of the burning camp and made for an impressive sight as it cut another man through, shoulder to navel, before separating the hedge knight’s head from his body.  
  
  
  
Eddard’s attention was brought back to his own battles by a reckless man-at-arms who charged at him with a pike while screaming like a madman. He maneuvered his mount to intercept before slicing through the shaft of the pike and the man’s neck with two swift, precise strikes. As the body fell to the ground with an audible thud, Eddard scanned the field for his next opponent.  
  
  
  
He caught sight of a stocky man not thirty paces from him in runed bronze armor who looked to be searching for a new foe, same as him. Eddard recognized the armor as the mark of a Royce. He met the man’s sight for a moment and the two considered each other carefully before the Royce turned away to block a morning star wielded by an incoming Whitehill man.  
  
  
  
Eddard let out a shaky breath as his shield arm began to throb. He looked at his sides for Howland and Martyn but found them absent. He searched frantically in the immediate vicinity but could not see either of them amid the chaos.  
  
  
  
“Come on!” Eddard urged his horse and the rest of the men on as he tried to ignore the moans of the dying. He searched for the faces of his comrades among the immense throng still fighting, making a few swipes at some of the enemy foot as he went. Much closer to the castle walls, he spotted a dismounted Howland fending off two men-at-arms with his spear. Eddard felt the blood drain from his face as a bulky enemy horseman started charging directly at his friend, positioned to blindside him.  
  
  
  
Racing across the blood-soaked field, sword raised, he made to come to Howland’s defense. They’d not take his friend...Lyanna’s friend...He wouldn’t allow it. Eddard saw red as everything but the closing Waynwood knight faded into the background. Seeing the man’s fearful eyes through his visor as he spotted the coming danger brought Eddard satisfaction as he came within sword’s reach of the enemy.  
  
  
  
Raising his shield and pulling back his sword to strike, he was unprepared to find his mount falling out from under him. Eddard’s momentum sent him careening into the larger knight, sending them both crashing to the ground in a heap of arms and armor.  
  
  
  
He let out a pained scream as he landed on his shield, driving the spike into his arm. His cries would have likely traveled far if they weren’t muffled by the wet ground. Dazed, Eddard pulled his face out of the mud. He felt around for his sword, but Eddard’s opponent regained his wits more quickly and struck him across the faceplate with his armored fist, putting Eddard on his back as the Waynwood knight straddled him and trapped Eddard’s right arm under his knee.  
  
  
  
  
  
Eddard’s breath stilled as the knight’s immense weight constricted his chest. Just when he thought he couldn’t get any more fucked, he followed the Vale knight’s gaze to his right where his sword lay. It would be over as soon as the sword was in his grasp and they both knew it. Just as he was contemplating whether or not to yield, he heard his father’s voice reverberate in his mind.  
  
  
  
 _If you have to fight, Win!_  
  
  
  
Hardening his resolve, he frantically looked for an opportunity. As the knight leaned to grab the sword, Eddard bucked in desperation and succeeded in flipping him over as every muscle of his battered body screamed out in protest. As he gasped for air, the sword slid further away but that did not seem to deter the knight any.  
  
  
  
 _No...No...I won’t let you..._  
  
  
  
He still tried to reach out for the sword but Eddard stopped him by slamming the edge of his shield on the elbow joint of the man’s armor, forcing cries from both men. The pain was nearly paralyzing as the spike in the shield tore through his leather vambrace further and rendered Eddard’s flesh, but he refused to let it affect him.  
  
  
  
Unsheathing his dagger from his belt, he drove it towards the knight’s visor in hopes of ending the fight swiftly. His opponent tried to buck Eddard off like he did to him as he held off the knife with his free arm, but Eddard was prepared and had evenly distributed his weight. There would be no escape.  
  
  
  
Grey eyes met blue through their visors in a battle of wills. They were locked in a stalemate, straining in near silence as the deafening sounds of battle echoed around them. The knife began to inch towards the knight’s eye as Eddard gained the upper hand in the exchange.  
  
  
  
“Yield, Ser,” Eddard rasped. He didn’t want to kill the man, let alone in such a brutal fashion.  
  
  
  
They ceased their struggling as the knight seemed to consider his offer. Eddard relaxed but only raised his knife slightly. That proved to be a prudent choice.  
  
  
  
He saw the knight’s eyes narrow in defiance. “Stranger take you, traitor!”  
  
  
  
 _What?…_  
  
  
  
Eddard’s confusion at the manner of address distracted him long enough for the man to strike him with a vicious headbutt. He tried to finish him off with his knife, but the knight was too fast and he grabbed the blade, stopping the tip just inches in front of his eye. Eddard’s knife dug through the gauntlet and into the flesh as blood began to drip down into the buffed steel visor. It must have hurt, but the larger man was clearly desperate and past the point of caring. Eddard found his strength fading quickly as his opponent gained a second wind, bucking underneath Eddard and using his brief loss of balance to change his grip to grab Eddard’s wrist.  
  
  
  
Emboldened by his success, the knight made to push him off, but Eddard spotted a weakness. As the man made to buck again he took his shield and shoved the thin edge of it between the gorget and faceplate, prying the helmet off his head. The knight’s face only had time to adopt an expression of shock before it was being savagely pummeled by Eddard’s shield.  
  
  
  
Again and again, he brought his shield down on the man, yelling strangled cries with each strike as the pain in his arm flared. He barely registered a punch to his side as he lost himself in the battle fever. He didn’t know how long it was before he returned to himself but by the time he stopped, the top half of the head was unrecognizable and the eye he previously tried to stab was lolling off to the side.  
  
  
  
The arm that had, just a moment ago, held Eddard’s vambrace in a death grip was now lying limp. Tucking his bloody dagger into his belt, he spent a few moments on top of the dead man catching his breath and lamenting the method of his kill. It was...it was not  _clean…_  
  
  
  
As he shakily got to his feet and picked up his discarded sword, he heard a dry, almost mocking voice in his thoughts.  
  
  
  
 _Clean? War is many things, boy, but never clean…_  
  
  
  
Eddard felt the odd urge to chuckle at that memory but was cut short by the shout of a giant beast of a man in full plate looking directly at the knight he just brutally dispatched.  
  
  
  
“Jasper!” The huge knight was thankfully dismounted but was wearing a surcoat with what he could barely make out in the dark of night as Waynwood colors and was coming directly at Eddard with a greatsword and a purpose.  
  
  
  
 _Fuck me…_  
  
  
  
He was still drained from his last encounter but nevertheless set his stance to receive the man with the best defense he could muster.  
  
  
  
“Ironoaks!,” the man roared.  
  
  
  
“Winterfell!” Eddard felt ridiculous when he automatically responded with a raspy cry that paled in comparison to the deep boom of his assailant.  
  
  
  
His new opponent let his emotions get the best of him, however, overextending his first attack, and allowing Eddard to slash the back of his knee as he ducked the strike and moved behind him.  
  
  
  
He was sorely disappointed that the cut only gave the large man a slight limp as he turned to face Eddard again with unexpected quickness. A guttural battle cry burst from his foe’s throat and Eddard cursed that damned spike for the umpteenth time as the man’s greatsword slammed into his shield with staggering force. He had to take several steps back to steady himself and nearly tripped over ‘Jasper’ as he retreated.  
  
  
  
Stepping back near the fallen knight only increased the avenging Waynwood’s ire. Frantically blocking the next strike, Eddard was surprised to find it considerably weaker than the one before it, oddly so in fact. Before he knew it, the gigantic knight was _falling_ on him. He had no time to move out of the way and had the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground.  
  
  
  
He panicked and struggled underneath the large body before he realized that the burly man was just that now, a body. The man was completely limp. Puzzled, Eddard summoned every bit of strength he had left to shove the body off of him as he grunted with exertion. Getting back to his feet, he noticed Howland approaching him with his spear and what looked like the stick that he always carried on his back. Eddard didn’t know what it was, but if his friend carried it in battle, then it must be useful.  
  
  
  
“Ned.” Howland greeted him. He had a satisfied smile on his face that Eddard recognized. He looked back and forth between him and the large man.  
  
  
  
 _Could he have...How?..._  
  
  
  
Seeing his puzzled look, Howland walked over to the fallen man and raised his arm, revealing a thin needle-like object stuck in the armpit.  
  
  
  
 _Of course, a poison dart…_  
  
  
  
Eddard looked back and forth between the dart and Howland’s stick connecting the two. He thought that poison darts shot from the depths of the bogs were one of the many myths that surrounded the Crannogmen. Well...Howland and his little stick proved him wrong.  
  
  
  
“Is he dead?” Eddard was extremely impressed. Even _he_ hadn’t noticed it hit him and he was watching the man the whole time. He wondered if the man felt anything when Howland made his shot.  
  
  
  
His friend shrugged. “Not yet.”  
  
  
  
Almost as if on cue, the knight’s body spasmed violently for a few moments before going limp once more.  
  
  
  
“Now he is,” Howland said dispassionately.  
  
  
  
“Thank you.” Eddard was very grateful, if not somewhat disturbed that such a large man could be taken out so quickly and with such little fanfare. He was hardly going to complain about the dishonor of such a weapon when the use of it saved his life, but he knew that Brandon would never rest easy in his crypt if he was ever to suffer such an inglorious death.  
  
  
  
Pulling himself out of his grim thoughts and discarding his ruined shield, Eddard glanced around the thinning battlefield for his horse. He found its body not far from where the two men-at-arms who were attacking Howland laid. He trudged towards it, holding his sword ready. It had a spear sticking out of the side of its neck between armor plates. If if wasn’t his horse that was on the receiving end, Eddard would have marveled at the skill, or luck, necessary to achieve that kind of precision.  
  
  
  
As Eddard dispatched another enemy soldier he heard Howland on his left side. “One of them broke off from me to do it. Without the distraction, I probably wouldn’t have been able to kill him though. So, thank you.”  
  
  
  
“Ah...that’s what I just did...provided a distraction...glad to know I was of use,” Eddard replied tartly between breaths as he pulled his sword out of the man’s chest. He knew Howland was only telling him that they were even in his own way, but his enigmatic nature grated on him sometimes.  
  
  
  
The battle was nearly over now as more of their men seemed to be looking for enemies than actually fighting. Eddard even saw some Darry men in the fray. The defenders of the castle must have been feeling sure enough in victory to send out sorties from the front gate and keep them in the field.  
  
  
  
Eddard and Howland stuck together as they dispatched a few straggling men who continued to fight. As they were searching for their friends more towards the center of the camp, they came across one of their men losing badly to an old knight with candles on his shield. They rushed forward to intervene, but a large blade was already skewered through the knight’s plated chest before they could get close.  
  
  
  
He barely recognized Brandon. He was missing his helmet and covered from head to toe in blood as he sat upon his destrier, but he otherwise looked unharmed. The Waxley knight was likely the leader of the men in this area because most of the remaining foes threw down their arms when he crumpled to the ground.  
  
  
  
Brandon was laughing as he cut down one last man who resisted before he rode over to them, his white grin sticking out on his filthy face.  
  
  
  
“Now this is a battle!” he exclaimed, raising Ice to the sky.  
  
  
  
 _Aye...It is..Glad you noticed..._  
  
  
  
Brandon reached down from his mount and clapped Eddard on the shoulder. “What do you say, Brother? Let’s go finish the rest of these fuckers!”  
  
  
  
Eddard nodded but Brandon didn’t even wait for an answer before urging his horse into a gallop and charging towards the nearest sounds of battle. “Damned fool,” Eddard muttered as he followed him on foot, with Howland not far behind.  
  
  
  
Tents were falling around them as their supports were burnt to a crisp, setting fire to men on both sides. Eddard and his companion barely dodged a few falling beams as they jogged in the direction of Brandon. They spotted him clashing blades with a knight wearing plate and a winged greathelm that gleamed like silver under the light of the waxing moon. Grouped behind the winged knight, in a haphazard but effective formation, was a sizable remnant of cavalry and foot who were fighting on.  
  
  
  
While the battle on the left flank was now mostly waged against the burning tents. The very center of the camp still possessed stiff resistance from the Arryn levy. They were a hundred paces from the open gates to Castle Darry now, where the Valemen were making a final push to try and break out of their entrapment. If they let them regroup and inform others of the attack, the result could be disastrous for the vast Northern host following behind them.  
  
  
  
His musings were cut short by the need to defend himself from the encroaching enemy remnants. The Vale men-at-arms and conscripts were half scared out of their wits and gave ground quickly, but the knights appeared to be calm in the face of near-certain defeat and kept their fellows from breaking ranks completely.  
  
  
  
“Craven! Come back and face me, Elbert!” Brandon yelled.  
  
  
  
Eddard couldn’t see Brandon, now that he was in the thick of the melee, but he assumed that the winged knight, ostensibly Elbert Arryn, had disengaged from his brother. The rebel’s morale waned as they heard Brandon’s accusing taunt and some of the levies broke and were cut down quickly as they panicked.  
  
  
  
Eddard tried to keep the men together and pushing the enemy towards the Manderly and Ryswell men on the other flank. “Don’t let up! We want to greet our comrades and these fuckers are in the way!”  
  
  
  
His impromptu encouragement had some effect, as the men surrounding him gave an unintelligible cry and surged forward. The two sides were in such close quarters that they barely had any room to work with and were mostly reduced to pushing against each other with their shields and jabbing aimlessly in hopes of hitting something vital. As the noose tightened and the line shifted, Eddard found himself behind a man so large that he had to have been from either House Umber or one of the Mountain Clans.  
  
  
  
Multiple foes must have teamed up to take the giant man on because Eddard had to brace against the man’s back to keep the line from being pushed back. Eddard lost track of time as the two sides scrapped and picked at each other. The logical part of his mind knew that the battle could have only started hours ago, but it felt like days. However long it actually was, it took that long for the number of rebels left standing to dwindle to about forty.  
  
  
  
“Yield! I Yield!” Eddard heard a voice yell. He didn’t recognize it, but the Valemen certainly did. All of the ones he could see dropped their weapons not a minute after that plea rang out. As the men ceased their fighting and began to disperse, the only sound Eddard could hear other than his own tired breaths was the faint clashing of one sword against the other.  
  
  
  
Pushing his way through the battered ranks, he saw Brandon dueling with the Royce he spotted earlier. Now that his helmet was removed, Eddard recognized the weathered and bearded face of Lord Yorwyck Royce. No one was moving to interrupt and Eddard had no doubt that Brandon would gut any man who tried. Nevertheless, He prepared to intervene if his brother lost the upper hand.  
  
  
  
Both men’s swords glinted in the night as they traded blows with incredible skill and grace, but superior strength and raw talent soon won over skill and experience as Brandon swept the feet out from under Lord Royce and put the tip of Ice to his neck.

  
  
“Yield?” Lord Yorwyck was their father’s cousin by marriage and Brandon was clearly reluctant to slay kin, distant or otherwise. Royce nodded gruffly and a few men-at-arms disarmed him and dragged him off to the side by the heir to the Eyrie who still wore his winged helm.  
  
  
  
Dawn was breaking now and with the battle over, their men refocused their efforts to putting out fires and rounding up the prisoners. Eddard flipped his visor up and walked over to his brother with Howland in step behind him. “Did any get away?” Eddard asked when he stopped a few feet in front of him.  
  
  
  
Brandon looked like he was contemplating something before he shook himself out of a stupor and met Eddard’s eyes. “Not through the center.”  
  
  
  
Eddard nodded. It was probably a better conversation for later when they could talk to the others all at once. Although, Eddard wasn’t particularly looking forward to it. He didn’t lead his men well. He just charged in recklessly….Eddard vowed to do better next time.  
  
  
  
As his brother sheathed Ice across his back, he got an odd look on his face and before Eddard knew it, Brandon had engulfed him in a crushing hug, slightly lifting him off the ground. “You did well, Ned,” he said.  
  
  
  
Eddard initially bristled at the unexpected contact but appreciated the sentiment. His brother released him from his hold and smiled at him.“Don’t look so grim. You’re alive! Lighten up!”  
  
  
  
Eddard couldn’t help but give a thin smile back. “Someone has to be the sane one, Brother.” Brandon gave a dismissive snort at that.  
  
  
  
Their moment was interrupted by Howland. “My Lords, riders approach.”  
  
  
  
Eddard and his brother started slightly, scanning for incoming enemies only to find that Howland was referring to a Darry procession coming from the castle gates. He glared halfheartedly at his friend, convinced that he was being purposefully vague, but Brandon only laughed.  
  
  
  
“You almost got me there for a moment, Howland!” He clapped the crannogman on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground. Howland looked nonplussed at the reaction, but simply shrugged and excused himself to go and help gather horses.  
  
  
  
Eddard considered going with him but decided to stay by his brother’s side to greet the Darrys. The lead man in the procession was free of the grime of battle and wearing a doublet that displayed considerable wealth and unnecessary vanity. As they came closer Eddard could see two young men riding by his side; the eldest of them had clearly participated in a few sorties judging by the state of his armor. He noticed that they all had light brown hair and rather delicate features that the two eldest men tried and failed to cover up with large beards.  
  
  
  
Brandon picked up on it as well. “If their women are half as pretty, we’ll have a fine time in that castle,” he jested.  
  
  
  
Eddard’s suppressed laugh came out as a cough when he noticed that the riders were entering earshot. They knew who they were looking for because they immediately rode up to Brandon. Eddard took his position a few steps behind and to the left of his brother as the lead man addressed him. “Ser Brandon, is your father with you?”  
  
  
  
“I led the attack, my Lord. So, I suppose it’s me you’ll have to thank,” Brandon replied as he shook his head.  
  
  
  
The man, who Eddard assumed was Lord Darry, let out a chuckle and offered his hospitality for them and their men. Brandon found his horse, while Eddard commandeered a new one, as they, the other Northern Lords, and a sizable contingent of Stark men-at-arms accompanied the Darrys back to their castle.  
  
  
  
On the ride back, Eddard took off his helm, sighing with relief as the cool morning breeze hit his sweat soaked hair. The young Darry riding next to him looked at him disapprovingly, no doubt thinking him a man-at-arms who was riding too far ahead for his station. Eddard wouldn’t be offended if this was the case. Unlike his brother, who had an elaborate suit of plate made for him in King’s Landing, he wore the same basic mail and leather as any Winterfell guardsman with no frivolous embellishments. The only alterations in his armament to set him apart was the faceplate attached to his helm and his higher quality sword, so it was an honest mistake to make, given that his features were rather plain.  
  
  
  
“Who would you be, Ser?” he asked with only a tinge of accusation in his voice. He was not much younger than Eddard, perhaps having seen sixteen namedays.  
  
  
  
 _Well...At least he’s trying to be polite about it...He even called me ‘Ser’…_  
  
  
  
Eddard gave a small smile, genuinely amused. “Eddard Stark; though, you can add the Ser on the front if you like.”  
  
  
  
To the young man’s credit, he only looked surprised for a moment before schooling his expression. “Raymun Darry. No Ser yet, but you can call me that as well, if it please you,” He joked dryly as he put his arm out.  
  
  
  
Eddard chuckled and shook it firmly. “Well met, Raymun.”  
  
  
  
The two rode on in silence until they passed through the first gate leading to the bridge. “I apologize if I caused offense, Ser Eddard.”  
  
  
  
Eddard shook his head. “Think nothing of it. It’s happened to me before and it’s like to happen again. I hardly make it easy for people.” He shrugged and made a show of looking over his battered arrayment.  
  
  
  
Raymun seemed to relax a bit. “Still, I should have known. You were standing next to Ser Brandon when we approached and you look much alike.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Why do you wear such basic armor? Surely, as a son of a great house, you could outfit yourself with a good suit of plate.”  
  
  
  
He had a point. Eddard could have a set of plate made if he really wanted one, but he was comfortable with what he had.“It’s quicker to move in and takes most blows just fine...nothing unnecessary. I prefer mobility.” He didn’t like how plate armor made one feel invulnerable; it could get a man killed, thinking like that.  
  
  
  
Raymun seemed to consider what he said before nodding. “I understand but disagree. I'd rather be slow than dead."  
  
  
  
Eddard simply inclined his head in response. He didn’t blame him. He was wearing a good, sturdy set with no ornamentation. He had always detested armor that put more emphasis on looks than sense. He had once heard the story of how Lord Tyrell, in his youth, had commissioned a set of gold-enameled plate with three inch long ‘thorns’ all over it. At the next tourney, he landed firmly on his back when he was unhorsed and it took four men, each holding a limb, to pull him out from where the thorns on the back of his armor had planted the Fat Flower.  
  
  
  
He was broken out of his amusing thoughts by the party coming to a halt in front of Plowman’s Keep. Castle Darry was only remarkable in the sense that it was completely  _un_ remarkable in every way. It had a keep, a sept, a hall, and a small town, but nothing unexpected...no character. He supposed that it was fitting for a house with a plowman for its sigil, but he was expecting more, all the same.  
  
  
  
As they dismounted and handed over the reins to the stablehands, he saw Brandon beckon him forward as he stood in front of Lord Darry. The man was large in both height and girth with many rings and necklaces to match his extravagant doublet. As Eddard reached his brother’s side, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Lord Deremond, This is my brother, Ned.”  
  
  
  
Lord Darry seemed to be a jovial man and looked pleased to notice Raymun at his side. “Ah!...Welcome, welcome...So you’ve met my youngest already, then?”  
  
  
  
Eddard nodded. “Yes, my Lord. We shared words.”  
  
  
  
“Good...good. Raymun can show you to the Maester.”  
  
  
  
 _Maester?...Oh right…_  
  
  
  
Eddard looked at his left arm and found it still bleeding through the tear in the vambrace, making his wound obvious. He had gotten so used to the throbbing pain during the battle that he had forgotten about it.  
  
  
  
 _Maybe metal ones wouldn’t be such a bad idea…_  
  
  
  
“Thank you for the hospitality, Lord Darry.”  
  
  
  
He shook his head emphatically, making his sizable gullet jiggle. “Nonsense...You fought for us, for good King Aerys. We’ll be thanking you for a while yet.”  
  
  
  
Eddard nearly choked at the notion that the King was  _good_ and thought the man a fool for suggesting such a thing, but nevertheless gave a measured response. “As you say, my Lord.”  
  
  
  
The fat man laughed and nudged Brandon. “As serious as you said, Ser...Well, I expect you both at the feast tonight, so you have all day to rest. I’d reckon you need it after a night like that...” As Lord Darry trailed off, Eddard saw sadness in his eyes for the first time. He’d seen things. Eddard decided to hold off on judging him a fool just yet as the man walked away.  
  
  
  
Brandon turned to him. “Go get that looked at, Ned. We’ll have a council after everyone is rested.”  
  
  
  
With that, Brandon left to go talk with the older Darry brothers across the courtyard and Eddard followed Raymun into the keep.  
  
  
  
Stepping inside, Eddard admitted that the keep had an aura that made one feel at home. The reddish brown wood and lit hearths gave off a sense of warmth that permeated Eddard’s body. Despite its welcoming atmosphere, the interior was a maze and he was glad that he had Raymun to guide him.  
  
  
  
As they ascended a set of stairs Raymun broke the silence. “How did you get injured? ” he asked almost excitedly.  
  
  
  
Eddard thought that Raymun’s tone was rather tactless, but he doubted that the young man had seen real combat yet, so he really didn’t mind. “A spiked lance went through my shield and punctured my leather vambrace.”  
  
  
  
Raymun nodded and Eddard barely heard him mutter, “Wouldn’t have happened with plate.”  
  
  
  
Eddard ground his teeth slightly but didn’t respond.  
  
  
  
Raymun showed him to the Maester’s chambers and left him with a man who looked like he should have been dead before Eddard was born. He was certainly competent, however, and had Eddard’s wound cleaned and patched up in an hour. He was relieved that the gash wasn’t very deep, he really wouldn’t have appreciated losing a limb after his first battle.  
  
  
  
The Maester directed him to a bed he could rest in and Eddard was asleep before he could properly lay on the bed. Gravity did the rest.  
  
  
  
  
  
Feeling something jostling his shoulder, Eddard awoke and grabbed his unknown assailant by the throat and squeezed. “Ned...Ned...”  
  
  
  
Eddard let go and was embarrassed to find Brandon’s squire simply trying to wake him. “Sorry, Ethan.” He was glad to see that he was alive. Eddard hadn’t seen him since the battle started. It felt like a lifetime ago.  
  
  
  
“It’s...it’s okay, my Lord.” Eddard felt a keen sense of guilt at his actions as Ethan rubbed his neck.  
  
  
  
Regaining more awareness, he realized that he was not in his filthy armor anymore, but in nightclothes. Seeing Eddard’s confusion, Ethan explained. “The Maester couldn’t wake you at midday, so he had some servants sponge you down and change your clothes.”  
  
  
  
Eddard sighed. He felt like an invalid. “What time is it?”  
  
  
  
“Close to dusk. The war council is set to assemble soon; That’s why I came to wake you.”  
  
  
  
 _I slept so long..._

 

“Thank you, Ethan.”  
  
  
  
The boy smiled slightly. “Of course, my Lord. The servants also left some clothes for you, for when you woke up.”  
  
  
  
Eddard got out of bed. “I’ve told you to call me Ned, Ethan.”  
  
  
  
He looked awkward and directed his gaze at the floor. “It wouldn’t be proper.”  
  
  
  
Eddard raised an eyebrow. “Who’s squire are you again? I thought he taught you better than that,” he teased.  
  
  
  
That elicited a laugh from the boy. “Yes, my Lord. He did.”  
  
  
  
Eddard remembered that he called him by his nickname when he was choking him, but he certainly didn’t want to bring  _that_  up again.  
  
  
  
Eddard began to change out his night shirt for a leather doublet. “You can leave, Ethan. I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”  
  
  
  
“Yes, Ned.” Ethan looked like he had just realized that he was still standing there and left the room quickly. He must have had other errands to perform.  
  
  
  
After changing his clothes, Eddard stepped out of the room only to realize that he had no idea where he was going. Just as he was contemplating whether to ask a servant for directions, he heard a cheerful voice behind him. “Ser Eddard!”  
  
  
  
He turned to his right to find Lord Darry striding down the hallway with a considerable spring in his step. Once he reached him, Eddard gave a nod in acknowledgment. “Lord Darry.”  
  
  
  
The large man clapped him on the back with a familiarity that made Eddard uncomfortable. “Glad to see you’re alright, lad. Does your brother want you at the council?”  
  
  
  
Eddard bristled at the insinuation that Brandon might leave him out of it. “Aye, he sent for me, my Lord” He couldn’t keep a small amount of indignation from seeping into his statement.  
  
  
  
If Lord Darry noticed Eddard’s annoyance, he didn’t show it. “Well, then...let’s go. wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”  
  
  
  
With some reluctance, Eddard followed a few steps behind the corpulent man as he led him through the hallways and to a large chamber with a long table that took up most of the room in it. Brandon and the others were arranged around one end of it, as the table was much too large to be fully occupied by such a small group as they.  
  
  
  
Eddard felt his heart lighten when he noticed that they hadn’t lost anyone from the council. Taking the seat that Brandon had left open for him, Eddard gave him a nod to let him know that he was perfectly fine. The concerned look left Brandon’s face and after Lord Darry gingerly lowered himself into a chair next to Lord Manderly, his brother didn’t stand on any ceremony.  
  
  
  
“Now that we’re all gathered...Lord Rodrik, how many of the enemy did we kill?”  
  
  
  
Lord Ryswell betrayed neither excitement nor displeasure at the question and answered in an even monotone. “About three thousand four hundred, my Lord. We captured another four hundred with about fifty nobles among them, including Lord Royce and Elbert Arryn.”  
  
  
  
Brandon twitched his nose at the last name. Eddard knew that he only did that if he was upset or thought something was wrong.  
  
  
  
Lord Dustin spoke next. “Excellent! Now that we hold Lord Arryn’s heir hostage, perhaps he can be convinced to quit the field.”  
  
  
  
All of the other Lords, except Lord Darry, murmured in agreement. The lone Riverman looked very disturbed by something.  
  
  
  
“If he does, the war is all but won!,” Lord Manderly exclaimed.  
  
  
  
Louder murmurs of agreement went up at that, but Ser Martyn interjected. “There were too many tents.”  
  
  
  
Everyone took pause at the odd statement.  
  
  
  
“Speak sense, man. What do you mean?,” Lord Ryswell said.  
  
  
  
The grizzled old knight huffed. “There were not enough men and too many tents. During the fighting, I noticed some of the tents had nothing in them at all. I paid no mind to it at the time, but there were easily as many tents to accommodate three times the enemy’s number.”  
  
  
  
The council all exchanged worried and puzzled glances as the room fell silent.  
  
  
  
Brandon looked visibly shaken. “Lord Darry, how many men do you reckon started the siege?”  
  
  
  
Eddard could tell that they weren’t going to like the answer. “My men counted fourteen thousand...”  
  
  
  
The table erupted in shouts but before any heated exchanges began, the doors to the chamber opened revealing a shame-faced Darry guardsman, who looked very much like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.  
  
  
  
Lord Darry sighed. “Yes, Harron.”  
  
  
  
The man’s demeanor gave Eddard little optimism. “Apologies, milord, but you said you’d want to be informed right away if something happened to any of the prisoners.”  
  
  
  
“Yes, I did. Why? What happened?” Lord Darry did not betray any anger he may have felt and spoke calmly.  
  
  
  
“Um...well...Lord Arryn kept on yelling, struggling and making a ruckus, milord. Kept on telling us that he was the heir of the Eyrie and would make us all rich if we helped him escape...”  
  
  
  
Brandon lost his patience and slammed his fist on the table. “What the fuck happened? Get on with it!”  
  
  
  
“We had to knock him out, milord. He was driving everybody mad. Looked right desperate, he did.”  
  
  
  
Eddard and half the Lords let out a sigh of relief. It really sounded like something worse had happened.  
  
  
  
“Take me to him,” Brandon said. For once, he looked dead serious. Eddard was taken aback. He was aware that Brandon knew Elbert in passing, but this concern was out of character for him.  
  
  
  
“Wha...”, The guardsman was the only one to voice what everyone thought about Brandon’s sudden demand.  
  
  
  
“I said, take me to him!" Brandon yelled. ‘Harron’ flinched at his brother’s tone and Lord Darry tried to soothe him with assurances.  
  
  
  
“I’m sure my Maester can handle any injury...”  
  
  
  
“I don’t care about that. Take me to him. Ned, come with me.” Brandon grabbed the guardsman, shoving him out into the hallway and gesturing for him to lead on.  
  
  
  
Eddard got up and followed them at a quick pace. By the time they reached the dungeons, Brandon had broken out into a jog following the guardsman’s path to the correct cell.  
  
  
  
Looking through the cell door, Eddard saw the body of a young man laying in a heap on the floor. He couldn’t make out any features other than a head of stringy black hair, but that was enough for Brandon.  
  
  
  
“That is not Elbert Arryn.”


	4. Stannis I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baratheon host gathers at Storm's End.

The great hall was filled with the sounds of music, cheerful boasting and even laughter as their host enjoyed one last feast before the march. Stannis didn’t think that he’d ever hated the sound of something so much. His father would never laugh again and here those who were setting out to avenge him were wallowing themselves in drink, with more debauchery certain to follow. They stained the memory of his father by indulging so, not even a fortnight after his murder.  
  
  
  
His brother was not helping matters any. Sitting on Stannis’ left at the center of the high table, Robert was deep into his cups and grasping at any serving wench that came near. Normally, he would be furious at his brother’s behavior, but he could see the sadness in his eyes and he knew Robert was grieving as much as he was.  
  
  
  
Renly had found himself at the far end of the high table, not as any form of punishment, but by choice. His younger brother was much too gregarious for his own good and if Stannis hadn’t put his foot down, he would likely be consorting with all manner of people at the lower tables as well. His rascal of a brother was currently badgering the Grandison heir for details on his Kingsguard uncle. Never mind that the mad man the illustrious order served would see them burn alive, or the fact that the member that Renly is so curious about was hardly impressive and died in his sleep.  
  
  
  
His brother had barely seen four namedays, so Stannis hardly expected him to have a firm grasp on reality, but still...He should probably try to teach him not to admire anyone just because they have shiny armor and a white cloak. He heard Renly’s cheerful laugh as young Narbert Grandison made a funny face at him and Stannis’ heart lightened slightly. He would let his brother have fun.  
  
  
  
Everyone else seemed to be having enough of it, so he could hardly deny Renly. Some of the guests were already quite inebriated and making fools of themselves. Some good news and everyone looses their wits as if the war was already won. Stannis could already see the smug looks on the faces of lords who were initially unsure of who to side with. They no doubt were patting themselves on the back for choosing the ‘winning’ side.  
  
  
  
 _If only a war could be won by simply showing up..._  
  
  
  
Stannis sighed and took a sip from his goblet. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have anything to be celebrating. If the word of Lord Arryn was to be trusted, the Riverlands and the North had both declared for Robert, giving them a fighting chance in this war. Stannis didn’t quite know what to make of that. He was, of course, grateful that they did decide to support his brother and help avenge Father’s death, but he was wary of their motives.  
  
  
  
He would never trust Lord Tully. He was as slimy as the trout on his sigil, always plotting the next scheme to advance his family at everyone else’s expense. Stannis was no fool, he knew that was the way the world worked, but he wished it was otherwise.  
  
  
  
He was conflicted about the Starks. They were the Targaryens’ loyal hounds for generations, never faltering in their devotion. Their heir, Brandon, was a regular part of the prince’s retinue and Eddard seemed cognizant of his duties to both his house and the crown, just like Stannis. Stannis remembered little of his encounters with Lord Rickard, but he seemed to share the disposition of his second son. Was Rhaegar’s kidnapping of Lyanna Stark and the murder of their cousin enough to push them over the edge? Apparently, Stannis mused. He wasn’t sure if their choice raised or lowered his respect for them, but he knew that if he was in their place, Stannis would be torn as well. He was just glad they were on Robert’s side. He would need hounds of his own, he supposed...loyal or otherwise…  
  
  
  
He turned his attention back to his brother. He had only grown since Stannis saw him last and even then he was a hulking mass of muscle, capable of wielding his warhammer as if it were merely a longsword. He was but a boy then, now an imposing man with a full black beard presided over the hall. Stannis envied Robert for his stature and sheer presence. He was not proud of his feelings, but he was never one to lie...not even to himself.  
  
  
  
“Your Grace, please don’t take any offense on the account of Richard’s absence, he’s a strong-willed boy and looking to make a name for himself as second sons are wont to do.” Lord Lonmouth was trying and failing to appeal to Robert’s sense of friendship with his errant son.  
  
  
  
“Couldn’t make his name fighting for me, his king and liege lord, could he?” Robert barked out a laugh, but Stannis could tell it held little amusement in it.  
  
  
  
Lord Lonmouth paled. “I’m sure that he will see reason, Your Grace...”  
  
  
  
“Ha! From King’s Landing? Not bloody likely! ” Robert interjected.  
  
  
  
“All the same, Your Grace...Know that House Lonmouth does not stand by his actions.”  
  
  
  
Robert snorted. “‘The Choice is Yours.’ Are those not your words?...Richard made his choice...and you made yours for your house.” He could tell that his brother was still bitter, but he kept an affable demeanor.  
  
  
  
Richard Lonmouth was one of Robert’s childhood friends and Stannis gathered that the two used to be very close before they were fostered so far away from each other. It was uncommon for a second son to be close to a future Lord Paramount, but there were few heirs in the Stormlands near Robert’s age. While Robert was fostered in the Eyrie, Richard Lonmouth was sent to King’s Landing to squire for Prince Rhaegar. It seems that he did indeed make his choice...and he didn’t choose Robert.  
  
  
  
The tension was palpable as Lord Lonmouth thanked his brother for his understanding and scampered back to his seat. Stannis admired Robert’s composure when dealing with the gormless man, but knew that his restraint would come at the price of more drinking later. Stannis scanned the hall to find several lords and landed knights looking nervously at his brother as if working up the courage to approach him about something he wouldn’t like.  
  
  
  
He heard a loud huff to his left. “What are you thinking about? You’re always thinking, Stannis.” Robert said that like it was a bad thing…  
  
  
  
“Nothing of great importance, Your Grace.”  
  
  
  
“Piss on that! Not you too! Can’t have my own brother calling me that...”  
  
  
  
Stannis allowed himself a small smirk. “As you say, Your Grace.”  
  
  
  
His brother gave a hearty chuckle. “I see how it is...Fine!...Your King orders you to tell me what you’re thinking about.”  
  
  
  
Stannis kept his face impassive. “Lord Lonmouth will not be the only one begging forgiveness for his family member’s transgressions tonight.”  
  
  
  
Robert shook his head and took another long drag from his goblet. “Ah...” He gave Stannis a dubious look. “That’s what all that thinking got you? I could have told you that…”  
  
  
  
Stannis ground his teeth and bit back a retort as Robert brought his attention back to wine, food, and women. If the rest of the hall heard their exchange, they didn’t show it. Most of them went on as if they had not a care and those that looked nervous before continued on as they were.  
  
  
  
Stannis could no longer take the oppressive atmosphere of the feasting hall and, without making any excuses, simply got up and left. He assumed that Robert either didn’t care or was too drunk to notice. Climbing the dark stone stairs to the battlements, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to Storm’s End itself. Once Robert ascended to the throne, it would be his. He wasn’t overly confident in their chances of success, but he knew that by the end of this he would either be the Lord of Storm’s End or he would be dead. There were no other options. He wasn’t too bothered by the prospect of death. The Stranger came for them all, in the end, but all the same…If he had to die, Stannis would rather die the Lord of Storm’s End.  
  
  
  
As he reached the top of the battlements and looked out upon Shipbreaker Bay, he felt a distinct air of melancholy take hold of him and shorten his breath. Only a few short years ago, he watched his parents sail home across that very bay from their long trip in Essos. He remembered how his father hugged him, how the warmth had spread through his body in his comforting presence. In his childish mind, he thought that he would never leave again, that he would always be there. A fool’s hope; a fool’s dream.  
  
  
  
“Stannis?” He heard a worried voice call over his shoulder.  
  
  
  
He looked back to find his mother striding towards him with her black hair tangled from neglect and heavy bags under her eyes. Her once great beauty seemed to have been drained from her, leaving her looking like a woman ten years her elder. “Yes, Mother?” While Robert stormed and raged and Stannis directed his sorrow in on himself, their mother dealt with grief in her own way: By doing nothing but lay on her bed and stare at the ceiling.  
  
  
  
She looked slightly better now than she did a week ago, when he had to force her to at least drink some milk and eat some soft pieces of bread, but he didn’t think she would ever truly recover from Father’s death. “Did you not go to the feast? Your brother needs you, Stannis.”  
  
  
  
He felt an unbidden sneer form on his face. “He’s doing perfectly fine for himself. I attended the feast, Mother. It’s almost at an end, as it should have been hours ago.”  
  
  
  
“I hoped Renly enjoyed it...” Stannis heard the unspoken implication. If the war did not go their way, it could be the last feast Renly would see.  
  
  
  
“We can win this. Father can be avenged and no more of us will be taken before our time.” He only half-believed his own assurances, but his mother gave him a fond smile all the same.  
  
  
  
“Things will happen as they will, Stannis. You don’t have to say things you do not mean for my sake. Your father learned that a long time ago...”  
  
  
  
His parent’s marriage was an arranged coupling and there was little love between the two at first, but it was a testament how their fondness of each other grew that his mother mourned his father’s passing so.  
  
  
  
Some thoughts Stannis only shared with his mother. “I am not sure if it is a good sign that I’m being the more optimistic between us.”  
  
  
  
His mother gave a bitter laugh. “Your optimism is false, my son. Mine is true.”  
  
  
  
He felt his mother put a hand on his shoulder as they looked back upon the bay. “The Mad King may have burned Steffon, my son, but from the ashes, we will ascend.”


End file.
